


Hating Me is Self Care

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Africa, Beating, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Don't Read This, Fucked Up, Gay Bashing, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Object Insertion, Painful Sex, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Racist Language, Self-Hatred, Timeline: Resident Evil 5, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Whump, technically self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28986876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: As he grows stronger, Albert begins to wrestle with the innocence he once had.[Read and Heed all tags, please!]
Relationships: Albert Wesker/Multi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Hating Me is Self Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misch3fbunni3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misch3fbunni3/gifts).



> PROMPTING YOU AGAIN to read the tags. Thanks!

Albert Wesker kept his old S.T.A.R.S uniform folded neatly, hidden beneath a white towel, and locked in an unsuspecting fire-safe box at the bottom of his closet. No matter where he went, the box came with him.

At first, he didn't quite know why. 

He didn't know why he'd saved them. After his incident in Arklay, he'd hastily returned to his Raccoon City condo to grab and destroy a few final items in his escape from the world. He'd thrown away all of his old U.S Military garb once he'd left that post for the R.P.D. He'd thrown away his Umbrella-branded lab-coats, key-cards, and specimen aprons. But when it came time to dispose of the remaining S.T.A.R.S items he had -- a spare uniform, badge, and photograph -- he instead shoved them into the duffel bag he'd prepared of items to keep and take.

He'd transferred the perplexing fabric to a safe he bought after he set up his work in a new city. Months passed before he challenged his own rationale when one night, as though awoken from a stupor, he found he'd been holding them. Cradling them. Running his fingers over the badges and patches idly and not even know how they'd come into his hands. 

He spent hours looking at the photo he'd kept that night, trying to decipher its existence. 

It was a candid photo. One Chambers had taken on her polaroid camera. She was always incessantly clicking around with that damned thing. 

He and Redfield were sitting at a bar counter, turned around just barely. Valentine and Aiken were in front of them, caught mid-step in some stupid dance move. Vicker's grinning face was just barely in the frame, bottle of beer in hand. He and Redfield were smiling too. 

Albert had scrutinised the expression on his face in the photo, letting evening turn to the twilight of dawn without a single interruption in the staring contest he had with himself. 

' _Why are you smiling_? _What do you have to be happy about?_ ' He thought to himself, disassociated as though he weren't the one in the photo. As if the memories of that night weren't his. As though he had no memories.

And then it had hit him. Just how _angry_ the photo made him. Just how _angry_ that _stupid, stupid_ smile made him.

All of the years of naivety flooded into his chest like noxious acid, burning at his lungs. He cursed himself like he'd never had the right to be what he had been. That he'd never had the right to be _happy_ , to be _ignorant_. He'd wanted to tear the photo -- shred it to a million pieces in punishment for reminding him of a time he worked too hard to pretend had never existed at all. 

A time when he had been _innocent_. Human. Someone else.

And so the kept uniform's purpose became clear. It was an ethereal wall which clearly separated the past from the present. He saw it as a reminder of his weakness -- not just his inability to throw the meaningless fabric away, but of the weakling he'd once been. The idiot who thew up if he drank or ate too much. The pathetic being who felt pain and lust and love and laughter. The man who once wondered if it would be fine to never being anything more than just a man. 

The thoughts angered him even more than the photo did. He hated who he had been, as though his past self were nothing more than a saboteur who had wanted to destroy everything he worked for. He wanted to scream at that person, to beat him into submission like he deserved to be, to make him cry and suffer for his ignorance, for his innocence. 

He began to put it on occasionally. Locked in his room even though he lived alone, curtains drawn, computer disconnected. At first, he just wore it. He'd lay in his bed and run his fingers over the familiar fabric, an odd ritual that would last hours. 

And then, he began masturbating while wearing it. He would watch in the mirror as he fucked into his fist, hurling abuse at himself like he wasn't the one it was directed at. He'd always deny himself orgasm, forcing his hand to pull away just before he came. He'd do whatever he could to bring himself down from his high; punching holes in his walls, kicking through the door, even taking his shaving razor to his hand for a shallow, quick burst of pain to cut through the pleasure.

 _That person_ didn't deserve to cum, he told himself.

 _That person_ didn't deserve to be happy.

When he took off the uniform, he'd pretend nothing ever happened. Again it would go into his box, folded neatly, beneath a white towel, locked away. He always hoped the rituals would stop one day -- that he wouldn't need the uniform anymore. That he could throw it away and forget he ever was _that person --_ the person who needed to suffer.

But as he continued to change and grow stronger, his hatred towards who he had been only intensified.

He'd fantasise about doing terrible things to who he had been. He wished he could go back in time and punch himself to a bloody, curdled pulp. He delighted in the thought of every horrible thing that had happened to him then -- the time he was stabbed by a junkie while on duty, the beating he'd taken at Sergei's hands after a slighted order, the rape he'd endured after walking in the wrong neighbourhood. He'd masturbate to thinking about his own tears and trauma. The nights he'd spend awake, popping pills. The pathetic mess he'd become while drunkly trying to avoid remembering anything. As though he were a sadistic voyeur looking into the miserable life of another, he'd get off on it all. 

Every time he thought he was getting close to scratching the itch, it would come back harder than ever. 

Just as his power peaked, his anger did as well after he moved to the TRICELL facility in the Congo. 

The _fucking_ fire-safe box. It was one of the only things he brought with him. He snarled at it the entire time he packed and unpacked.

It was then that he decided he needed to do something drastic. He needed more. He needed to destroy that person, to hurt him, punish him, defile him. He needed to breach the ethereal wall, pull him through, make him hurt.

That night, he put on his uniform for the first time since he left America. 

It fit him well.

If anything, with his slight gain of lean muscle, it fit him a bit _better_ now. Just as always, he'd model it for himself in the full-length mirror in his quarters, taking in how the navy blue fatigue trousers tightly wrapped around his thighs. How the blue dress shirt stretched just ever-so-slightly across his now perfectly-defined pectorals. He made sure to adorn his vest and badge, too, slipping his long coat over the getup so as to leave his quarters at the facility without arousing the attention of anyone who might still be wandering the halls.

He took an SUV from the parkade and drove. 

Far. 

He left the boundary of Kijuju, escaping to a small township between Bosa and Kinshasa that was known for gang violence. Just before his car could have ben seen by anyone looking into the distance, he'd turn off the lights, getting as close as he could without entering the populated limits. He'd park the car in the low bush, disposing of his coat behind the seat, and hiding the key to the vehicle beneath a rock nearby. And then he walked -- black boots kicking up dust as he strode the final few hundred meters into the town.

It was the black kind of starless night -- one where the sky was so empty it almost didn't exist. But the orange glow of distant streetlights kept him on path, the occasional rustle of a wild dog in the bushes not phasing him. 

By the time he began to walk the streets of the township, some spots on his uniform had grown dark with sweat. It was a hot night, and was only going to get hotter.

His destination was a _shebeen_ \-- an illegal bar -- any one that was still open these early hours, it didn't matter. All of the shebeens just outside of Kinshasa were claimed by the _kulunas --_ gangs of weapon-brandishing criminals. They were who he sought the company of. 

Albert came to a bar that was still lit inside, the glow of orange streetlamps battling the glow of the few white lightbulbs illuminating the doorless cement entrance. He stepped inside to see no one but a passed out old man, draped over his table in the corner, and took a seat at the bar counter.

The shebeen Queen was a plump auntie wearing a bright blue headscarf. She had deep ebony skin that glistened gold with oil and sweat beneath the harsh bulbs. Though friendly, she seemed reluctant to fulfil his order for a glass of lotoko.

She sighed when he took out more than enough currency to afford the order, offering it all in exchange for a glass as though innocently ignorant of the local prices. She looked around when she took it from the counter, stuffing it into her pocket before grabbing the bottle of murky home-brew. 

"Quick quick." She whispered harshly when she set down the glass, "Quick quick then **_gone_**."

Albert simply smiled and thanked her softly. 

The whole time he drank, she seemed focused on the open entrance of the bar. Her hands idly moved behind the counter, as though to make herself look busy. Not halfway through the glass, Albert could almost hear her swallow.

Suddenly, she stood straight, smiling widely, hands still working busily beneath her. She then spoke through her toothy grin, lips barely moving as though she were trying to hide the fact she were speaking at all, something beyond the distance of the bar door clearly catching her attention.

"A beg go home, mazungu. Get gone."

Albert simply smirked, bringing his glass to his lips again and sipping slowly on the strong moonshine. Her smile quivered slightly as she tried to hold it, works snaking through her teeth again as she picked up a glass and began idly wiping it with a dirty cloth. 

"Is you a domkop..." She hissed, her hazel eyes beginning to move rapidly between Albert and something that was behind him, "You **_need_** get gone. Now."

"I assure you I'm fine, Ma'am." He droned, again taking another sip. Before he could even swallow the filthy home-brew, he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, causing him to involuntarily hiccup the liquor from his lips. 

"Howzit, boykie?" He heard a low growl slip past his left ear, a man coming to lean on the bar counter beside him, staring him down intently. Not a moment later, another flanked him on the other side. Both were turned towards him, one with a smile and the other with an indifferent frown quivering across his chapped lips. He was the one who spoke, casually lifting his hand to flick at the patch on Albert's shoulder sleeve, "Who's you boss?"

Albert's eyes followed his glass being taken away, the other, smiling man slowly pulling it. He could hear him drink it, but didn't turn away from the one who spoke. He took a shallow breath through his nose, eyes locking with the man through the filter of his dark glasses. 

He knew his uniform wasn't distinguishable from any of the hundreds of foreign workers and U.N military stationed in the murky far and wide. To them, ignorant about the meaning of any of the text on his badges, he was likely just another pawn taking up space and causing problems in their country. He'd bargained on that.

Through his peripheral vision, he could just barely see the bartender casting a ' _I told you so_ ' glance over her shoulder, a slight shake of her head accompanying it as she'd turned away, suddenly tutting over the organisation of half-empty bottles.

"Police." He said slowly. Prompting a cacophony of scoffing " _oooh's_ " and chuckles to erupt around him. It was only then that he realised there was an entire gang of people surrounding him, not just the two. He successfully contained a smile.

"Saa..." The man pursed his lip and nodded, "American?"

Albert didn't respond. 

"Wot din de nam then?" 

"Albert."

"Alberrr-t." The frowning man repeated, a little smirk coming pulling his cheeks away from yellowing teeth, "This here shebeen belong to us. No place for you."

Albert involuntarily flinched when two sets of hands gripped at the fabric of each of his shoulders, ripping him from his seat and throwing him to the ground harshly. His glasses were knocked off as his head cracked back into the dusty cement floor of the bar, and he had to force himself to suppress the hair-trigger reaction of his body that prompted them to glint red. He didn't want to scare his assailants off.

One of the _kuluna_ grabbed his glasses from the floor with a smile, putting them on casually much to the entertainment of some of the others. From his purview, Albert could see some of them were holding worn down, rusty machetes, while others had long pieces of steel rebar. There were at least ten.

"Oj!" A woman's voice rang out. The bartender. Albert couldn't see her from where he lay on the floor, but she caught the attention of some of the gang members, "Ja can no be here! I'got too many problems now! Voetsek san!!"

A fistful of his hair was snatched in a tight grip, one of the men lifting him just barely from the floor as another caught one of his arms. The two began to tug him as they walked. Albert could just barely catch a glimpse of the woman as he was dragged from the bar -- a disappointed, disgusted glare on her face.

Albert stumbled and tripped stupidly as he was dragged out into the dusty street, tossed down again carelessly. He felt some of the follicles of his perfectly manicured coif be ripped from his scalp as he was released from the tight grips. Again, he controlled himself from reacting, taking a deep breath. His gloved hand clutched around a stone beneath his palm, the rock effortlessly crushing to dust beneath his strength. The men didn't notice. 

The one who had spoken to him in the bar pointed down at him, instructing the others to search his vest and pockets for anything to steal. Rough hands were immediately on him, feeling up his pockets and tearing through his vest. The way they were manhandling him was beginning to arouse him, body involuntarily responding to the vulnerability he'd managed to force himself to endure with excitement.

He wasn't himself, after all.

He was _him_.

They quickly pocketed the Francs he'd brought with him, his watch being unceremoniously removed shortly after. It was only when they went to slip off his leather belt that one of them noticed the bulge developing at his hips.

"Oj! Pink pig be a moffie!" One shouted, pointing down at his obvious erection. 

Albert barely registered the group's verbal responses to the information as a piece of of the steel rebar suddenly came belting down upon his leg, white hot pain erupting behind his eyes. 

He yelped loudly, not even able to grab for his leg in soothe before a strike was dealt upon his arm. Just as that one hit, another was issued to his leg by a different man. They took turns beating him in rapid succession, unconcerned for where their bars fell. When one finally hit him in the face, his nose crunched sickeningly and his mouth immediately filled with blood. He spat and spat, tendrils of red flowing down his cheeks and dripping past his ears, but he couldn't keep up with how fast his mouth filled, and began to hack and wheeze as the bitter blood began to leak into his throat. 

Despite the physical pain, he was giddy. 

_'You're finally getting what you deserve, you piece of shit.'_ He thought to himself, _'Be more pathetic, why don't you?'_

"P-pl-lea-se..." He gurgled, "S-st--p."

He was rewarded when they all laughed at his attempt to plead. It wasn't until he heard fabric rustling that he registered they were stripping him. His legs were so numb that he barely felt when his pants were being fondled, his button undone and zipper tugged down roughly. 

He was almost happy his lips were too split to smile when he heard them scoff in disgust at his naked body. 

"He no wear no sliders!" One of the men said when he saw he wasn't wearing underwear. He angrily delivered a swift kick to his groin, "Fuckin' mashoga!"

Albert's eyes widened and he fell silent, lips gaped in a silent scream. They found his reaction amusing, so another quickly followed suit. He gurgled in agony when yet another stomped on his cock, grinding it beneath the tread of his worn-down sneaker like it were a cigarette he was trying to butt out. Each had an opportunity to assault his manhood, some kicking or stepping on him multiple times, seemingly with all the force they had in their legs. 

He was turned onto his side after they were done, one of them holding his thighs down as another took a piece of rebar and unceremoniously thrust it into his hole. The rust-covered steel shredded his inner walls as it was forced in, dryness lasting only temporarily as blood began to fill his insides, gushing around the rebar and dripping down his thighs. He could feel it -- the warmth flooding down across his skin. It almost reminded him of being cummed in.

_'More pathetic.'_

He let his tears fall, pricks tickling the corners of his eyes as the crystalline drops trickled out. They immediately got lost in the blood smeared across his face, disappearing into the sea of red like they were never there.

The man between his legs didn't seem to want to stop pushing the rebar, getting frustrated when it hit into his natural limits. Albert cringed at the disconcerting feeling of having his intestines prodded at, involuntarily trying to shift himself upwards, away from the rod. The heel of his boot dug into the sand as he tried to push away, an effort that was quickly stopped by a boot coming down onto the side of his head. His ear cartilage cracked loudly, a screeching ring vacuuming through his brain as all of the outside noise was suddenly shut off. His other ear pressed into the dirt, he couldn't hear anything.

The boot stayed pressed against his battered head, forced him to keep still as the rape continued and the rebar finally began to thrust painfully. Its sharp, rusty edges raked against his delicate innards, scratching and scraping him over and over again. 

_'More pathetic.'_

He couldn't hear himself bray in agony, a muffled distortion being all that penetrated through his busted eardrum, but he could feel the sound leaving him. He could feel the blood bubbling in his mouth and throat, spraying out with his hoarse sob of suffering.

Sweet suffering. 

All of the suffering he deserved.

He could taste the vomit rush up from his stomach when the rebar was finally withdrawn, bile pouring out of his mouth. He was sure he could taste the rust and steel. Once the boot was lifted, his ear popped -- enough blood pouring from it to accommodate the entrance of new sounds. 

They were done.

It almost felt too soon.

"Don't get missing on wey back den, wendy!" One of them said with a laugh.

As they walked away from him, Albert convulsed against the sandy road beneath, heaving in nausea. He gasped and whined weekly, feeling every nerve in his body screaming for solace. He only lay still after it became too overwhelming to do anything but.

Locusts chirped in the high grass.

Wind whistled across tin roofs.

Mosquitos and flies began to nibble at any piece of his flesh they could access.

Only when the slightest hint of the orange glow of dawn appeared in the horizon did he attempt to move again.

Slowly, he pulled himself together, knowing the villagers would likely be leaving their homes soon. He wiggled his trousers up enough to cover his bleeding cock and ass. And after multiple unsuccessful attempts, he managed to stand. 

Albert stumbled back to his car on his shaky, beaten legs. The two-hundred meter walk was almost too much, having to still and recover a few times along the way. He knew he could heal himself faster. He chose not to.

He retrieved the keys beneath the rock, and unlocked the door, climbing onto the seat with an agonising grunt. It hurt to sit. It hurt to put the key in the ignition. It hurt to steer the wheel and press the gas pedal. It all hurt so much he almost forgot to put on his trench coat when he arrived back to the facilities, sprained and fractured arms unable to curl into the sleeves, only able to hold the leather around him like a towel.

He made it back to his room without anyone seeing him, and locked the door firmly behind him.

Once inside, the coat dropped unceremoniously to the floor, and he just barely made it to the full-length mirror before he collapsed to his swollen, battered knees. 

Taking in the damage was always the part he enjoyed most. 

He intently assessed his swollen, blood-caked face, delighted with how the bruises and filth masked some of his age. Cheeks puffy and shiny, his wrinkles were smoothed and he looked a bit younger. His nose was clearly broken, twisted and cracked, and his left eye was beginning to slowly seal shut beneath inflamed flesh. His S.T.A.R.S badge didn't glint anymore in the dim light of his room, utterly caked in dirt and blood.

Albert slowly lifted himself on his knees, only his left hand responding to the order from his brain to undo his pants. He'd managed to haphazardly zip his fly during his walk back to the SUV, though they had still been half falling off. He peeled the zipper again, pushing his dirty, torn fatigues down. They'd become a bit stuck to his inner thighs with blood still leaking from his hole, but a few tugs loosened them away enough for him to access his pain-limp cock.

He then sat back on his calves, trying desperately to grasp at his bruised, blackened cock in a way that didn't make him immediately writhe in pain. But there was no way -- it all hurt. And the little, tepid jerks he made on the soft flesh were purely performative -- an act so he could look himself in the mirror and pretend.

Pretend he was enjoying watching himself suffer. Watching _him_ suffer. Even if it was impossible for his cock to spittle anything but blood, even if it felt awful, he would still pretend. 

Just as with his healing, he could have blocked most of the pain out easily. But he didn't. He wanted to feel it. He wanted _him_ to feel it. Denying himself relief was denying _him_ relief. _That person_. The one who couldn't simply turn suffering off whenever he wanted to. Turn off pain. Turn off death.

Finally _, that person_ was at his mercy.

And he would never give it to him.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This was for the amazing and talented misch3fbunni3 who asked for a Wesker selfcest fic I can't even say how many months ago now. They are an amazing writer and I have literally spent this whole time trying to work out a good way to approach this. Obviously it came out a bit differently than STRICT self-cest, but I hope they enjoyed it regardless. 
> 
> I finished this at like.... 4 am so I apologise for any mistakes in the writing. 
> 
> SOME OTHER NOTES:
> 
> I am from and in South Africa (though my dad is Ghanaian). While Kijuju does not actually exist, Capcom made it up, to me the name sounds a lot like Kujiji which is Swahili. Swahili is spoken mostly in east Africa, not west Africa which is where Kijuju allegedly is in the RE universe. BUT there is DRCongo which has a little bit of West African ocean spread close to the capital of Kinshasa, so I decided to make Kijuju in DRC.
> 
> That being said I don't know a heck of a lot of Swahili slang and had to ask a friend, so while some of the words in this story are actually Swahili, a lot of it is a totally incoherent and impossible mix of Afrikaans, Swahili, and Kru xD
> 
> And all of that being said: it was all for fun, like all of my stories. Don't repeat most of language off of fantasy on the internet lol


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